I saw blood scattered on the pavement along College Street the other day, it was nothing romantic, just remnants from a superficial wound on a cyclist. The paramedics hosed his leg down with water, and us pedestrians hopped over the blood trail. Everyone pretending they didn’t see it, going about their day and complaining about the sticky sweet breath of humid air. Someone else’s blood was the least of their problems. In the back of their mind they were glad it wasn’t them.

The heatwave makes days pass endlessly. It has felt like July for the past five weeks, but we don’t mind. Since the end of May, time has moved quickly for me. No sooner than when those words left my mouth did it become a certain, solidified fact. I was away from home, and home has since become a faraway word even though I stand in the thick of it. I rely on the buses and trains to reel me out, set me loose in the city. Everything feels better here, where the buildings hug the streets. I’m comforted by the chaos — a warm distraction from The Unsolvable, and I forget about Those Secrets, even just for a second.

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